


They Shall Not Grow Old

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, They Shall Not Grow Old (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Educational, England Needs Tea (Hetalia), Help, Historical Hetalia, Inspired by Real Events, Non-Canonical Violence, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poor England (Hetalia), War, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 07:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16657213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A collection of the Nations perspectives during World War 1.My dad and i went and watched Peter jacksons new films "They Shall Not Grow Old" and it's amazing and i reccomend if you want an emersive way to learn abiut the first world war, it's heart renching, it's funny and just plain amazing.





	They Shall Not Grow Old

**Author's Note:**

> So this first one is about Arthur, i cant possibly give the true feeling of what it would be like inside the trenchs other than gross and sad.

1916, November 20th. It's cold and cloudy today.

Arthur rested on a parapet,his head was tucked down as he scratched it from under the hefty helmet. “fucking lice…” he cussed in his head. Everyone was complaining about the lice, the itching he felt, he felt them crawling all over his skin, but he wasn't special, everyone woke up with them crawling over themselves. He glanced over to two younger boys, James Quillen and Michael Close, They sat in the mud with their shirts off as they used their lighters to burn away at the lice eggs, they chuckled hollowly to themselves at the popping noise the eggs were making as they lit up in flames and burst from the heat. Arthur couldn't understand how they could sit shirtless, it was a thought that plagued him as winter came in, the cold nipped at his hands and ate away at his feet as they started decaying in his boots, he just fucking knew it, the mud was cold and watery and it caked the bottom of the trenches. once it got in his boots it felt like glue, he couldn't take the boots off if he wanted to. Oh lord he didn't want to. He'd seen what happened to the last lot, when they were trekking up to the front line a bloke was sitting on a patch of grass down right wailing as he held onto his blackened, raw feet, it was a disgusting sight to see, and he knew it happened to himself too, It haunted him the thought of himself rotting alive, like some kind of living monster.

As he recounts, he sees a rat run past with a small chunk of meat in its mouth. They were everywhere, eating away at the decaying bodies around them. He told himself It wasn't all bad, smokes were good, the people were nice, he felt like he was part of something special. But the fucking lice… To be frank, he could name more reasons to why this “great” war was actual hell, but he didn't want to. Simple as that, if he didn't want to acknowledge his rotting gangrenous feet and the smell of death everywhere he went, he wouldn't.

He looked across from him at a cadaver that was perched up, by this point the mix of the shot to the side of its head, the discolouration to its neck and hands and the rats work of eating away at him, you couldn't tell who it was, Arthur didn't want to. He groaned quietly to himself and clawed at his scalp.“Is it even fucking worth it mate?” he pushed himself up off the parapet and went over the the corpse, if it was gonna sit there he was gonna check what was in his pockets. “Since when did I turn in a fucking vulture...” he mumbled, he opened the Cadaver’s breast pocket and finding a pack of french cigarettes, which he happily pocketed.

“Oi, Kirkland!” Arthur turned to the call of his name and saw James Quillen looking at him, james was from Somerset, rich family Arthur reckoned, when he first saw him, he had some swanky hair gel and a nice pack of cigars in his backpack, arthur was jealous if that, his mum and him were poor, lives on benefits street but he couldn't hate someone for their families lifestyle, there was no point, rich or poor you all turn in the same mush when you die, the evidence was all around them. Quillen pointed his lighter at him with an accusatory glint. 

“Are you talking to the fucking corpses, are you mad?” he asked. it wasn't bullying, it never was bullying, just harmless teasing, though this time when he looked at Quillen and Close in the eyes he could see their expressions were ones of cautiousness and fear. He did suppose it was wrong and weird, but he shrugged nonetheless. “He's no use to me otherwise.” Arthur's sighed to himself, pulling out a cigarettes and meandered over to the two lads. “Mind if I borrow that?” he asked, popping the dirty and possibly blood stained cigarette into his mouth while gesturing to Quillen’s lighter. Quillen nodded and passed the brass lighter to him. “You worry me sometimes, Kirkland…” Quillen frowned at Arthur while he watches his rub thumb over the engraving on the lighter: ‘lighters limited’. The military issued light worked fine enough, though arthur missed lighting his cigarettes on the stove before running out of his mums house to work. 

Arthur ignored what Quillen said, “It's weird what you miss when you ain't home no more.” he said simply, tossing the lighter back to Quillen as he took a puff. “You're right there, Kirkland. Miss me mum's poached eggs.” Close spoke, he was a scottish lad, he lived right out in the sticks, surprised he even knew there was a war to be enlisted in. “What is going on with you Kirkland?” Quillen asked rhetorically. Just as he spoke Arthur heard the wiz of a bullet and the splat it made as it entered the corpse behind them, it splattered a bit and arthur felt the cold blood of the body hit the back of his neck, he shuddered. 

He really started to count how bad it all was right then. He felt his pained fert squish in his boots, the itching all over his body, the consistent gunshots, the bloody stench, the fact he's learnt to breath through his mouth to avoid smelling the death, or the fact that he can now get a gas mask on in less than 3 seconds. It could drive a man to shoot himself. Some days he wished the germans would hit him square on the head with one of their fancy bombs. Arthur looked just past the two boys and stared blankly at the pile of dead rats that accumulated in the corner of the trench, he mentally added that to the list. He wished a german would shoot him right then and there as a rat scampered past them, only to be shot into nothingness. It was there and then suddenly it's entrails were painting his pant leg.


End file.
